A Kind of Magic
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, ZA One-shot. A bit of Richonne as well. My OCs present in this one (Muh and Haralee). A newcomer to the prison has everyone under spell. But is it magic in the air, or something else?


**AN: So this is from a tumblr prompt by therealsonia who gave me "Black Magic."**

 **It's just for fun. It's Caryl with a little Richonne. I'm using my own OCs in this one as well.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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The tiny old woman had come to the prison as an absolute enigma to all of them. At just over four feet tall, and appearing to be nearing the winter of her hundredth year on Earth, the obvious question to everyone was how she had survived so long.

During a normal supply run, Glenn had found the old woman wandering down the highway with nothing more on her person than would fit in a small knapsack like the one that he packed to spend less than a day away from the prison. At her side there was a girl of somewhere between ten and twelve years old who appeared to be no better prepared for their journey. Yet, Glenn reported that they hadn't begged him to stop for them. They hadn't run to the van and pleaded for help. He'd sought them out and he'd invited them back to the prison—and the old woman had accepted his offer like it really didn't matter to her one way or another.

She called herself Muh and she was a gloriously interesting creature. She was short and brown-skinned and so wrinkled that she had the overall appearance of a paper bag that had been wetted and crumpled severely before it had been allowed to dry in the sun. She had long white hair that she wore in a heavy rope of a braid that hung down her back. She had eyes that were almost gold under the heavy gray coating of forming cataracts. And every day, in Muh's life, was a _good day_. From the moment she arrived at the prison, she greeted everyone with a wide and toothless grin and held their hands and arms with thin hands and fingers that were bony enough to be claws. Her companion, the small girl, was named Haralee and, according to Muh, the girl had taken something of a vow of silence while she was with her.

But Muh gave little insight into herself or how it had come to be that she'd survived so long in a world where few seemed able to survive.

She told them she was born in the "hills," but made no clear reference as to what "hills" she might be referring to. She told them she was a "healer," but only offered another toothless grin in response to any question about what that might mean. She told them Haralee was her apprentice, but never fully clarified the trade the girl should be learning.

And when she was asked about the Walkers, she simply shrugged her slightly hunched shoulders and informed them that the dead, as she called them, didn't trouble her unless they came to ask her for the rest which she would gladly grant them.

In the beginning, Rick had seemed unsure about whether or not they should allow Muh and Haralee to remain at the prison. Winter was coming and they had plans to simply close themselves inside the space as much as they could and weather the cold. He'd wondered if they could trust a woman who seemed like nothing more than a four foot puzzle and a girl who never spoke a word. Michonne had talked to him, though, and insisted that if all of them had to fear for their lives around a woman that stood chest high on most of them and a young child who didn't speak, they really had no business going on any longer themselves.

And so Muh had come to stay with them.

Muh busied herself, during the days, brewing up liquids and steeping plants and other things she found around the prison yard to make teas that she offered everyone for one perceived "problem" or another. Offering a toothless grin to win them over, or some line of heavily accented speech that sounded almost like a riddle given to convince them, Muh would press them to drink her creations. More often than not, most of them declared themselves "healed" of whatever ailment Muh had informed them of—even if they'd never seemed bothered by it prior.

From Hershel to Daryl, everyone seemed to fall under the old woman's spell.

Michonne heard, from all of them, fantastical tales of their theories about Muh. Everyone believed something different, and they shared their thoughts in whispers and quick conversations, but they were all somewhere within the same grain.

Michonne heard that Muh was a witch. She heard stories about Voodoo and Hoodoo. She heard tales of black magic and bubbling cauldrons. She heard calmer stories of mountain magic and Native American shamans.

And she knew that Muh heard them too, but the old woman never confirmed nor denied any of the stories. She simply went on about her business. Her disinterest, it seemed, in revealing all her secrets only made the curiosity grow.

One evening, just before night fell, Michonne left the guard tower. She descended the steps, in the darkness of the stairwell, two at a time and pushed open the door. Immediately, she was hit with the smell of sweet smoke and she turned her head to find the old woman sitting on an overturned wooden box near the entrance of the door. Between her wrinkled lips she held the end of a pipe that she puffed on regularly—an item that was always found in the somewhat deep pockets of the dress she'd been wearing when she arrived.

"It's getting late," Michonne pointed out to Muh.

The old woman regarded her like she hadn't been expecting her to come out of the tower. Her heavy lips raised slightly and dropped again around the tip of her pipe.

"What's late for the bluebird is early for the owl," Muh said.

Michonne found that, though she wasn't sure of what the old woman might be or where she might have come from, she could rarely argue with her logic.

"Aren't you coming in for dinner?" Michonne asked.

"When I am hungry," Muh said, "there will be something to eat."

Michonne pointed to the box and Muh moved over enough to allow her room to sit. Michonne sat next to the old woman and leaned her head back against the tower. The spot wasn't that uncomfortable and the view—the field beside the prison—wasn't that bad. If she smoked, she would have thought it was as good a place as any to sit and enjoy her pipe.

"And if there isn't anything to eat," Michonne said, "then you'll conjure it up? Out of thin air?"

A rumbling laugh rolled through the old woman's chest and the box shook with her body's movements.

"You are so young to be so full of suspicion," Muh mused. "You must leave room for the hope if you wish to live as long a life as I."

"There's not much hope left in the world now," Michonne pointed out.

Muh hummed at her.

"There's just as much as ever there was," Muh said. "The world isn't any different than it ever has been. Only what you expect from it has changed."

"In this world?" Michonne said. "Everyone and everything dies. Everything's either dead or just waiting to see how long it takes."

Muh laughed at her again.

"In my years, I've learned that life is the only condition that nobody survives," Muh said. "I suspect I won't survive it either and neither shall you. But I don't know everything. And every day, I learn something more. Nothing is impossible."

"Especially not for a witch, like you?" Michonne teased.

The old woman looked at her, offered her the wide and toothless grin that she often employed, and went back to contemplating the field for a moment while she finished off what was left in the bowl of the pipe. Satisfied that it was gone, she tipped the pipe and tapped it against the edge of the box, scattering the ashes and bits of leftover plant-life on the ground.

"Come," Muh said. "We shall eat."

She got to her feet quicker than her appearance would have suggested she could and offered a gnarled hand to out to Michonne like she intended to help her to her feet. Rather than insult the old woman and refuse her offer, Michonne took her hand and stood. Muh didn't let go of her hand. Instead, as they walked, she worked Michonne's hand in her own.

Ahead of them, at one of the small fires that burned low in a pit for cooking, Carol was stirring a pot. Michonne stopped her forward progress and Muh stopped hers too. Standing just out of obvious view, Michonne watched. It was the same thing every night. Carol prepared the food, went out to declare it done, and then—just as it happened that night—Daryl came out of the prison. He circled her twice, pretending at first that he'd come out for something else or to look at something that was never named or indicated, and then he asked her if she needed help. She always did. The biggest of the pots was heavy. He'd take the pot and she'd smile at him. Then, together, they'd walk inside the prison and Daryl would stay close by Carol until everyone came expecting their food.

Michonne kept the old woman in place, Muh seeming unable to move as long as Michonne didn't, until Carol and Daryl were inside the prison.

"Have you a fear of disturbing your friends?" Muh asked.

"I have a fascination with my friends," Michonne admitted. "They're so in love with each other that it's ridiculous. But neither of them ever gets any closer to saying it than what you just saw. But it happens every night. I guess love is complicated."

"Love is a simple emotion," Muh said. "It's we who make it complicated."

"Well—if you're supposed to be a witch," Michonne said, "there's a trick for you to perform. Get those two to work it out." Michonne laughed to herself. "If you can straighten those two out? I'll believe whatever you want me to believe."

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"Drink this," Muh said, putting the chipped china mug on the table in front of Carol. As soon as her hand was free of the mug, the old woman used it to brush the clothes out of Carol's reach, toppling some of them to the floor as Carol cried out in protest.

"I was working on that!" Carol said.

"And so you shall again," Muh said. "Drink this."

Carol eyed the mug—one found in a cabinet somewhere that advertised some festival that was long forgotten—and frowned at the slightly brown liquid inside it. There was something floating in the mug, but Carol didn't know if it was dirt or plant life.

"What is it?" Carol asked. She picked it up and smelled it. The scent wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"It's good for the soul," Muh said. "And your soul is in need of some comfort."

Carol raised her eyebrows at the old woman.

"It is, is it?" She challenged.

Of course, comfort did sound like something that Carol would like. She couldn't say she was miserable—in some ways she was as happy as she'd ever been—but she couldn't say that everything in her life felt settled and peaceful. That wasn't the way of the world. It never had been.

Carol, here, was free from Ed. She was free from his constraints and those that she'd put on herself when she'd been with him. She didn't have to pretend here. She could be herself. She could be who she was and she was free to be as open as she wanted to be without fearing that Ed would appear out of nowhere and punish her for not behaving just like he felt she should. But, here, Carol was also without Sophia. There was a heaviness inside of her where her love for her daughter resided. It kept her up at night. It reminded her of a loss that, though she'd thought it would be too great to bear, she'd survived.

And that weight reminded her of her loneliness. She had friends here. She had family. She felt loved.

But she still felt alone.

Maybe some comfort for her soul, offered to her by a little woman who reminded her in some ways of her grandmother, was just what Carol needed.

And if the liquid poisoned her? It wouldn't be a great loss to the prison, Carol was sure, and she'd find _some_ kind of rest—though whether or not her soul would be comforted then remained to be seen.

"Is it tea?" Carol asked.

"Drink," Muh said, touching her fingers to the bottom of the mug like she intended to tip it up for Carol. "It's good. It will bring you comfort."

Carol shrugged to herself, lifted the mug, and tasted the contents. It was tea. Some type of tea, at least. She looked at it.

"Do I have to drink what's floating in it?" She asked. "What is that?"

"Drink it," the old woman insisted.

Carol sighed and drank the rest of the tea—floating tea leaf and all, as she was choosing to believe the unidentified thing to be—and when she was done, she put the mug on the table. Muh smiled at her, her gums showing that it had been many years since she'd been in possession of a tooth.

"Am I going to die now?" Carol asked. "Are you waiting for that?"

The old woman laughed.

"You're not going to die," she insisted. "You're going to start—a new _life_. The tea renews you. It awakens things inside of you to a new morning."

Carol laughed to herself. The old woman was certifiably insane. Of that much, Carol was certain. She might have been a witch or she might have just been mad. It didn't matter, either way, because there wasn't a soul at the prison with whom she couldn't get along.

"I could use that," Carol said. "A new life."

Muh hummed at her.

"I suppose you've had a few," Muh said. "And so you shall have another. With the comfort that you'll find, you'll find love again."

Carol hummed in amusement.

"Love? Me?" Carol asked.

She didn't want to point out, to the old woman, that she'd known love before. It wasn't loving that had ever been her problem—it was finding love that was _returned_ that she seemed to have a hard time doing.

Muh nodded her head.

"You won't be able to avoid your love," Muh said. "No matter how hard you try. The love comes with the comfort. And the love brings comfort."

Without any more explanation than she'd brought when she entered the room, Muh left the room. Carol watched her go, her chipped mug in hand, and then she leaned and picked up her mending off the floor. Love, Carol had. At least within herself. The comfort, she hoped, would come.

She was doubtful of Muh and her potions and brews—but she was also oddly hopeful. And, now, oddly even more so.

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Daryl shivered a little when the wind blew and forced a gust of cool wind into the watchtower. He wrapped his poncho a little better around his shoulders. He was keeping watch and, at the same time, he was trying to warm himself with the pathetic amount of heat that the little oil lamp gave off while also trying to keep himself from accidentally lighting his own body on fire.

He jumped when he heard the creaking sound of the door opening and was surprised to see that, rather than Rick or Michonne or someone else who might be coming to relieve his watch, Muh shuffled into the guard tower. In her hand, she brought a mug. She held it out to him, as soon as she was clear of the door, and Daryl got up to take it from her.

"Carol send this?" He asked, looking at the mug.

"You have to drink it," Muh said. It was the only answer to his question that she offered.

"What is it?" Daryl asked, turning his nose up at the contents of the mug. The only thing that might bring him to drink it was the fact that it was warm and he was cold.

"You should drink it," Muh said. "It will keep you warm."

"Carol shouldn't have sent you up here," Daryl said. "It ain't that cold. I won't freeze."

"She didn't send it," Muh said. "Or she would have brought it herself. But she would want you to drink it. Drink the tea. It will keep you warm."

Daryl looked at the mug once more.

"Some kinda special tea or something?" He asked.

Muh didn't immediately answer him. She simply watched him with expectation. Daryl was cold, though, and the mug was hot. The liquid, just as the old woman said, was likely to keep him warm no matter what it contained. He brought it up to his face and inhaled the steam. It was tea. It was a little stale, probably drawing its base from some of the old tea that they kept in storage, but there was an earthy scent there as well. She'd mixed it with some of the herbs that she kept drying to a crisp in her cell.

It wasn't poisonous. That much Daryl could tell just by the scent, even if he couldn't place it exactly. It wouldn't kill him and, even if it didn't do anything particularly special, it would warm him up a little.

Daryl raised the mug and drank the contents quickly. Lingering too long would let the liquid cool down and he wanted everything it had to offer. When he finished, the old woman reached for her mug and he returned it to her.

"What is it?" Daryl asked, trying to test the lingering taste on his tongue. "Tea but, what else? Something special?"

Muh smiled at him by raising the wrinkles around her lips like the floppy jowled dogs that Daryl remembered.

"Special enough that its effects will keep you warm for years to come," Muh offered.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Well that's some trick," he mused. "Really, what is it?"

Muh reached a hand out and caught Daryl's arm. She wrapped her bony fingers around it and squeezed him affectionately. She winked at him, dramatically closing one of her drooping eyelids before she smiled again.

"It's a love potion," she crooned.

Daryl stepped back a little before he laughed again.

"The hell," he commented. "What is it for real, old woman?"

"You will find your love," Muh said. "And you won't be able to resist her. But—she won't be able to resist you either. And then you will be warm for years to come."

"OK," Daryl said, deciding to humor the old woman—and trying very hard to ignore the churning in his stomach over the thought that she might have actually given him something stronger than an everyday tea. "Sure," he said. "You need help gettin' back down them stairs? Steep."

"I will be fine," Muh responded, letting go of his arm and leaving him there to wonder about her and her beverages. "They're not my first set of stairs to climb or descend."

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As the day was drawing to a close, Daryl decided that he did feel different.

Whether it was the tea or just some normal change coming over him, he wasn't sure, but he did feel different. He'd felt different all day. Of course, he knew that much of it could've been brought on simply because he'd spent most of his day wondering if there was any merit to what the old woman had said.

He knew there were such things as love potions—or at least he'd heard tell of them—but he didn't know if he believed they might work. And if they worked, how he could be sure that they'd work correctly?

After all, he knew who he loved.

But it wasn't easy to believe that she could ever love him.

Love, after all, hadn't been much of a part of his life before all of this, and this was hardly the world for such an emotion.

Still, he felt decidedly _different_.

Daryl nearly bumped into Michonne as he was heading up to his perch to get the clean clothes that he'd take with him to the now-functioning showers. She side-stepped to avoid him and muttered something out about being sorry for being in his way. In response, Daryl apologized to her for not watching where he was going.

"You're going to shower?" Michonne asked.

Daryl hummed.

"Unless you were going now," he said. "I've waited all day. Won't hurt me to wait a while longer."

Michonne shook her head at him.

"You go ahead," Michonne said. "Rick's on watch and I was going to take him a coat up anyway. Temperature's dropping outside."

Daryl shivered a little at the reminder of the cold—and the reminder of warmth to come.

"I'll make it quick," he said. "Don't stay out there too long."

Michonne eyed him oddly, like she could see the something different about him that he felt, and then she walked around him and continued on in the direction she was headed, presumably to get a coat for Rick. Daryl quickly mounted the steps to his perch and gathered up his clothes. He very nearly ran for the showers, afraid of getting stopped by anyone else before he could get there and close himself off for a moment from everyone.

Daryl burst into the shower room without knocking and without announcing his presence. He stopped short, nearly falling over his own feet, when he came face to face with Carol who, still damp from her own shower and carrying her dirty clothes, was clearly in the act of leaving the bathroom.

She looked at him wide-eyed.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I'm sorry," Carol said, echoing him.

"I was just..." Daryl said.

"About to shower?" Carol asked.

Daryl nodded.

"I was just finishing up," Carol said.

Daryl wanted to slap himself. He was being awkward and it was all because of the crazy superstition that the old woman stirred up in him. There was nothing special about the damn tea that he drank. He was in love with Carol, and he had been for a while, but it didn't mean that anything was going to happen now. It hadn't happened before, and it wasn't going to happen now.

It didn't mean that she was suddenly going to be in love with him.

It didn't mean anything.

And Daryl was being awkward enough, at the moment, that Carol was never going to speak to him again because she was going to think that something had gone wrong with his mind.

"Good shower?" He asked, trying to force something out to keep himself from looking like a complete failure at conversation.

"Cold," Carol said. "We're—out of hot water. It was out when I got in here."

"Cold shower isn't always a bad thing," Daryl said.

"I guess not," Carol said. "Well—I hope you enjoy it...Daryl."

She was looking at him. She was trying to figure out what was different about him. She was trying to figure out what was _wrong_ with him, more than likely.

The tea hadn't done anything. It wasn't anything special. It didn't mean that he was about to tell her that he loved her or that she was going to declare her undying love to him standing right there in the damp shower room.

It didn't even mean that, if he moved to kiss her right now and without any explanation, that she was more likely to kiss him back than she was to land him a good slap across the face.

But, whether it was the tea or not, Daryl still felt oddly compelled to take the chance.

With no more explanation than that which was going on inside his head, Daryl put his fingers under Carol's chin and lifted her face to his. He dipped his head to kiss her lips and, without hesitation, she seemed to raise up to meet him. Softly, their lips touched.

And, as though what the woman said would come to pass was true, Carol moved toward Daryl like she was seeking more. She dropped the clothes that she was holding and wrapped her arms around him. He stepped backward with surprise and she followed him, coming back for another kiss. He granted it to her and moaned to himself when she opened her lips to deepen the kiss. As though they were caught in a game of tongue-tug-of-war, Daryl sought another kiss from Carol and turned her, walking her slowly backward until she was stopped by one of the sinks that didn't work.

Only then did the kiss break.

Carol looked at him, her mouth slightly open, and she blushed red.

"I don't know...what came over me," she said.

"Me either," Daryl insisted, though he had his suspicions. He licked his lips. "You want me to stop?" He asked. Carol shook her head. Daryl nodded his agreement with her. He didn't want to stop either. To show what he was thinking, he stole another kiss from her and savored the scrape of her teeth against his lip even as she broke the kiss.

"You have to shower," she said, a little out of breath. "They're—someone's going to want to shower."

"Then you're going?" Daryl asked. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her to say that he didn't want her to go. Now that she was here—now that she was in his arms—he didn't want to let her go again.

"I'll shower with you," Carol said, smirking.

"You just showered," Daryl said. She shrugged.

"Can't be too clean," she offered.

"Water's cold," Daryl said.

"I think—we might be able to warm it up enough," Carol offered. "If you—wanted to..."

Daryl didn't need more of an offer than that. He pulled her with him, toward the shower, to give her his final answer on the matter. If he didn't act now, the effects—if there really were any—might wear off before the deal was sealed. But he didn't tell Carol that.

And he decided not to tell her that he had it on good faith that they'd never be too cold again.

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Michonne had only lingered outside the shower room long enough to figure out what was going on inside. At first she'd pushed the door open a crack, not paying attention to the fact that the room was occupied, but she'd quickly backed out when she'd heard sounds coming from inside.

Then, of course, she'd been glued to the door because the sounds were unfamiliar—at least in the prison and certainly with the knowledge that Glenn and Maggie had showered hours ago. The moaning that echoed in the space had made her think of Walkers at first.

But then she'd realized that death was the farthest thing from what was taking place in the shower.

Abandoning the idea of a shower for the night, Michonne had gone around to let the others know that the showers were out of hot water and it was best, if they hadn't showered, to simply postpone bathing until the morning. None of them wanted, after all, to catch pneumonia.

And not everyone had a shower buddy to keep things warm.

Then she made her way down the corridor to the cell where the little old woman sat on her bed, reading a book by candlelight. Above her, in the top bunk of the prison cot, Haralee slept soundly.

Muh looked at Michonne when she stepped into the doorway.

"I'd knock," Michonne said, keeping her voice low. "But there isn't a door." Muh studied her a moment and then smiled at her. She patted the bed beside her and Michonne shook her head. "Did you do that?"

"What do you speak of?" Muh asked.

"I speak of what's happening in the shower room," Michonne said. "Between Carol and Daryl? Did you do that?" Muh laughed. The sound rumbled in her chest. "Magic?" Michonne asked.

Muh shook her head.

"There's no such thing as magic," Muh said. She clucked her tongue at Michonne. "I thought a bright girl like you would've known that. Nobody can make something out of nothing. Not even an old woman like myself. All there is—is bringing out the best in something. Bringing—bringing something out that was already there."

Michonne nodded her head. She smiled at the old woman.

"Yeah," Michonne agreed. "I guess you're right. Still—whatever you did? It was a good thing. They needed that."

Muh nodded her head.

"We all need happiness," Muh said. "And—sometimes, we all need help finding it."

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Michonne sat at the cafeteria table where they ate most of their meals in shifts and chewed through the last of her eggs. Muh shuffled in the side door, bringing a gust of the cool air with her when she came from outside, and carried the small pot she'd been heating outside over to the counter where she sat it down on a tattered towel. Michonne watched her as she stirred the pot and tipped it, pouring the contents into the chipped festival mug she'd claimed as her own.

Rick came in, still buckling on his gun belt as he dressed for the morning, and he stopped by the table. Michonne gestured toward one of the seats that had a plate of food in front of it that Carol had set out for him not ten minutes before.

"Carol left your breakfast," Michonne said.

Rick thanked her for the information and sat down in front of the plate.

"Sleep well last night?" Michonne asked.

Rick laughed to himself.

"As good as I think anyone did," Rick said. He cleared his throat. "Sounded a little like the cold weather brought us a mice problem."

"Some awfully large mice," Michonne commented.

Rick hummed.

"Yeah," he said. "That they were. We should put mice that big to work."

Michonne laughed.

"As it turns out, I believe one of the mice was responsible for making breakfast this morning. And, from the sounds of it," Michonne teased, "we might need to make a couple of pharmacy runs soon. Otherwise—we might have some _more_ mice running around the prison by spring."

Rick laughed.

"Pharmacy run might not be a bad idea," Rick said. "You have watch today?" Michonne nodded. "We might see if someone else could take over. You and me could get out there and find a couple of pharmacies. Get in and out quickly. Better than sending a large group."

"I'm up for it if you are," Michonne said.

Rick, abandoning his barely touched breakfast, got to his feet.

"Finish up," he said. "I'll go see if I can find someone to take watch. And—I'll have my breakfast to go."

Michonne nodded and followed Rick with her eyes as he walked out of the room. She turned back at the heavy clunking sound of something touching down on the table.

Muh slid her prized mug over in Michonne's direction and offered her a toothless grin.

"Have some tea," Muh said. "It's cold out there. It will keep you warm on your run. I'll wrap up his meal to go. And I shall fill a thermos for the run."


End file.
